Sour Notes

by Todd C Wilson

  “So, he just stopped breathing all of a sudden?” I asked, a nasty through crossing my mind.

  “In crude layman’s terms, yes,” Doctor Binettun said, agreeing with me as much as she ever would and scaring me at the same time.

  Maybe Kaheck didn’t just stop breathing. Maybe he was told to stop breathing.

  ✽✽✽

  I weaseled Kaheck’s address out of Binettun before ringing off and flagged a cab. “Twelfth and Plesk,” I said, climbing in. “And watch the potholes, I’ve had a rough night.”

  The superintendent for Kaheck’s building was otherwise occupied, which was fine with me. I was able to crack the door lock in under six seconds, a new personal best. Too many people rely on digital keys these days, but even with multiple layers of encryption there are still plenty of weak points if you know what you’re doing. I obviously knew what I was doing.

  Kaheck’s apartment looked like it had been searched by a troupe of monkeys on a work release program from the local zoo, or else the guy was a complete slob. Either way, it was going to make my job that much more difficult. Not that it had been a walk in the park so far.

  I closed the door behind me and stood for a full minute, taking in the ambiance of the place, just letting it soak in. Street noise filtered in through the windows, rumbling traffic making one of them rattle loosely. Probably leaked cold air in the winter. A muffled thump from overhead confirmed a neighbor was home, getting out of bed or returning from work. My sense of smell was being assaulted by the lingering smell of cheap perfume, the kind favored by Xenos who thought it made them more attractive but only served as an announcement to anyone with a working olfactory system they were overcompensating for something. Usually it was small hands, but a growing bald spot or a lousy backswing would do in a pinch.

  I frowned, looking around. The vibe I was getting from the place felt weird. Typically, you walk into an apartment, you get a feel for it and can get a read on the person living there. Take mine, for example. A single bedroom efficiency with a handy fire escape for those times I need a quick exit. First thing that hits you is a chair facing the door, small holovid to the left of it, giving the watcher a clean shot at any uninvited guests. Bare floor, easy to clean in case of spills, blood or otherwise. Faint smell of gunpowder and light oil in the air. Dirty laundry that needs taken care of, and a beat up caff maker on the kitchen counter next to an equally beat up computer. My place practically screams private investigator.

  Kaheck’s place was screaming one thing and showing me another.

  The obvious message I was getting was that someone lived there, most likely Kaheck, based on the Xeno-style clothing scattered around. A few pictures decorated the wall, abstract reproductions, nothing special. Kitchen drawers filled with what I assumed were Xeno kitchen utensils, each one more weirdly shaped than the next. None of them were anything you could properly grip with a human hand, at least not without a lot of practice. Unlike my own, Kaheck’s refrigerator actually held something, a leftover carton of proolong takeout calling my name. My empty stomach rumbled, so I helped myself to it and one of the fork-like tools from the drawer, stuffing my face as I continued my tour of Kaheck’s apartment. Even cold the proolong was surprisingly good, and I made a mental note to try it warm next time. The citrus flavor added a sour note to the dish that really gave it some extra zing.

  Clothes on the floor, cramped kitchen area more accustomed to take out than real cooking, a washroom that could stand some deep cleaning followed by an exorcism. All in all, your typical low-to-middle end apartment, home to millions.

  But it was the stuff that I wasn’t seeing that was telling me another story.

  There were no books to speak of, none at all. No magazines, journals, notebooks, a single scrap of paper, nothing. Not even an electronic reader with automatic text-to-speech capabilities for those nights when you want to fall asleep to a trashy romance novel. Not that I would ever do that, of course.

  Not the place of a biochemist. Heck, not the place of anyone that I’ve ever broken into. I’ve seen love nests that felt homier than this place, and that included ones where an actual nest of twigs and leaves had replaced the bed. This place felt sterile. Fake. Staged. So fake it was actually giving me a mild headache.

  It may have been the proolong, much-needed food after skipping lunch, but I had a sudden clarity of vision. Let’s say you had a pet biochemist somehow able to make a new wonder drug everyone wants. A drug that bonds with a rare mineral, one only available if your biochemist works at the Science Facility where they hoarded a stash of it. A rare mineral, that, when combined with certain other elements, tends to make people susceptible to verbal commands. Like, oh I don’t know, start a riot. Or maybe even stop breathing. What’s to keep you from telling them to do something else, such as clean out their apartment of any incriminating evidence? Evidence such as research into the chemical formulation that goes into the mind-altering compound, along with any notes and electronic documentation. And further, logically thinking of course, if you wanted to ensure they took the very same drug they had been developing, the simplest way would have them consume something they normally enjoyed. Like maybe some takeout from their favorite restaurant.

  I stopped chewing. Looked down. Finally noticed where the spicy citrus flavor was coming from.

  Oh. Space me. Space me sideways.

  Chapter 13

  “W

  ell the good news is that your brain shows no sign of Holmium Oxide poisoning,” Doctor Binettun said, ripping the pressure cuff off my arm and dabbing where she had drawn at least sixty liters of blood. Her bedside manner needed some work and hanging around dead bodies all day didn’t help. One of her drones came up and handed her a chart and then wandered off, probably thinking about cutting up their next victim.

  “That’s because Jazz doesn’t have a brain,” Bob said snidely from her perch on a handy stool. I had made the mistake of calling her on my way over to the Boneyard, rattling off what I had found in case I suddenly dropped dead.

  “Actually, that’s not true,” Binettun said, slapping a full body scan into a viewer. “Jazz, like all Humans, has a highly developed brain, comprised of over 70 billion neurons that can sustain significant damage before failing. An extremely robust autonomic nervous system connects it to a hyper-efficient liquid-based heat exchange dermal system. Combined with their natural bio filtration organs, Humans such as Jazz are very resilient to Holmium Oxide and a wide range of poisons, not to mention environmental extremes that would kill most species a dozen times over. The only issue I have is that Humans are all mammals, which is just as disgusting as it sounds.”

  “Don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it, sister,” I said, hopping down from the examination table and putting my shirt back on. I felt better knowing I wasn’t at risk of literally dropping dead just because someone told me to, but my head was killing me.

  “What kind of planet did you originate from that your body needs all that to survive?” Bob asked in amazement, her voice somewhere between being impressed and downright terrified.

  I opened my mouth and then closed it with a click. I actually had no idea. Nobody did. Humans just... were. You could trace the history of every other species to their home planet and pinpoint the exact date when they integrated into space-going society, but not humans. It was like we just appeared one day in the cosmic wonderland, fully formed and everywhere, ready to rock-and-roll. The only thing everyone could agree on was that wherever Humans originally came from, it was probably an ecological and biological hell hole, better off left alone.

  “A very nice one,” I said, not wanting to get into the theoretical origins of the human species right at the moment. If Bob wanted to know, she could ask Zam Ziplose, who would be more than happy to talk her ear off. Figuratively, of course.

  “The bad news is that the Wicked Yellow you consumed along with the Holmium is acting like a short-term nootropic, pushing your brain to work harder than it normally does. Yo
ur hippocampus and thalamus regions are running extremely hot, for example.”

  “Explains the headache,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. I didn’t know what was worse, suddenly being able to follow along with what Binettun was saying or the disapproving look Bob was shooting my way.

  “In most species, I would consider that to be a serious problem,” Binettun said, ignoring my comment. “But with humans I simply don’t know. You could be at risk of an embolism, or the side effects could pass with no ill effects. There is so little hard medical science on human neural chemistry. If you want, I am willing to find out, but it would require that you allow one of my drones to examine you in substantially more detail.” Binettun made that face again, like this was some sort of joke, but I wasn’t taking it as such. She’d get me on her table just as soon as Zam got Bob on his – which was half past never if I had anything to say about it.

  “Thanks Doc,” I said, slipping Roosevelt and his holster back into place. “But I think I’m good for the moment,” I added, grabbing my coat and my hat and motioning for Bob that we were ready to leave.

  “Oh, one other thing,” I said, relaying the message from our friendly neighborhood spider about his overdue book. Favor complete, Bob and I made our escape before Binettun could break out the scalpels and bone saws.

  ✽✽✽

  I called Uavoo mostly to check up on Araimer, who was currently enjoying a visit by a physical therapist and not able to talk. It sounded like they were having fun so I gave Uavoo a message to relay, asking Araimer to use his police contacts to look into a few things for me and call back as soon as he could.

  While I waited, Bob and I swung by Fulmar’s, picking up a box of fresh Erbius grubs and ignoring the 2 for 1 sale they were having on sequined dancing shoes. Bob insisted on a tanker-truck size cup of fish-flavored caff to go, slurping away at it happily as we navigated traffic back to Professor Chiezis’s domicile. Halfway there Araimer returned my call, whining about how he was being tortured by both the physical therapist and Uavoo, who apparently whistles in his sleep. And no, I did not know Uavoo was also possibly a criminal. How shocking. I let Araimer ramble for a few seconds before tiring of his musings and asking if he had bothered to look into the things I had instructed him to.

  “Yes, but the police are very busy and not your personal research department,” Araimer complained at me, his shrill voice doing unpleasant things to my eardrum. “Just because you can’t take the time to fill out the proper paperwork and wait fifteen days like everyone else is no reason…”

  “Just answer the question, Araimer,” I said, interrupting. He harrumphed a few more times before answering.

  “Officially, the Drug Unit has no open investigation into Wicked Yellow or anything else. Unofficially, of course, they are aware of it and are tracking supply and demand, building a picture of who is involved. The concern is that custom-designed drugs are a worrisome new development and could lead to gang violence as one faction seeks to gain control over the other.”

  I grunted. That sounded disturbingly familiar, echoing the events I had a hand in on Calcifor 267. This time around it wouldn’t be plasma rifles and rail guns. No, it would be fire bombings and gas attacks, entire family units wiped out just to make a point.

  “Not to mention a rise in overall crime if demand for the drugs increases. Any leads yet?”

  “None.” Replied Araimer. “Apparently one major supplier suddenly stopped producing, resulting in a temporary price spike.”

  “Let me guess. Batch fifty-one.”

  Araimer was silent for a moment. “How did you know that?” he said, his voice higher and shriller than before. Gotcha, you old fraud. Try to pull one over on ol’ Jazz, will you?

  “I have my own sources, ones that don't take fifteen days of paperwork. Relax, get healed up. Tell Uavoo to show you how to pick a lock, the two of you can raid the kitchen together and drown your sorrows in banyam pudding. I’ll see you soon.” I hung up before Araimer could complain at me some more.

  “Banyam pudding?” Bob said hopefully, looking up from where she was trying to get the last few drops of her caff. Stars above, where does she put all of that? My back teeth would be floating if I drank that much in one sitting.

  “No banyam pudding for you,” I said firmly, ignoring her pout. The kid was gonna eat me out of house and home before long. “You want pudding, you have to spend a few nights in the hospital first.”

  ✽✽✽

  Professor Chiezis was very appreciative of the grubs, enough so that the spider was willing to overcome his distrust of modern communication devices and allow me to connect him with Zam, the three of us on speaker phone together. As I figured, the two blowhards hit it off immediately and begin filling in the rest of the puzzle for me and Bob.

  Thanks to Zam’s underhanded methods of gathering information, some of which I was deeply jealous of, I was able to discover that Channel 99 had been having an interesting second-quarter, money wise. It was clear someone was laundering money through the station, masking it as advertisement revenue. To the casual eye it looked on the up and up, but Zam hadn’t possessed a casual eye in years. Well maybe he did, but they weren’t his. In any case, credits came in, credits went out, all supposedly to pay for singing bars of animated pot scrubbers and late-night infomercials. Which was all true, but the numbers didn’t add up when you backtracked to the source. Somewhere along the way, funds were being added, accounts bringing in more than they should. At the same time, those extra funds were being removed from the other end, expenses padded to cover it up.

  Chiezis, not wanting to be outdone, showed off his abilities and contributed to the discussion at hand – or foot in his case. I wasn’t sure if paps counted. Also, a hoarder like Zam, Chiezis collected data, not things. Among the data was census tables going back years, showing the ins and outs of Xeno City immigration. Immigration that tracked who came from what planet and why. Most importantly, who was from Inzae-5 and what they were doing now, along with a few pictures, all of them carefully printed out and pressed into books like so many paper flowers. One of them jumped out at me, a pink-feathered young girl arriving to study advanced biochemistry. I wouldn't have recognized her except Bob and I had spent far too much time watching an older version of her on video. This one was young, pink feathers arranged into a faux mohawk and sporting that wide-eyed look kids have when they first venture out into the universe, but it was definitely Fwunky Moh'na, Channel 99 News. Pretty far leap from biochem major to star reporter, but stranger things have happened.

  I finally had enough puzzle pieces to see the shape of things. Problem was, I still was missing a box to put them in. But I had a good idea where I could find one.

  ✽✽✽

  I let Zam and Chiezis blowhard at each other while Bob and I discussed more important things, hammering out a plan, fine turning the details until we both felt it had a reasonable chance of success. It all hinged on timing, our respective acting skills, and a large dose of luck.

  I hoped we had enough to go around.

  Chapter 14

  “S

  tay here and don’t move until I give you the signal,” I ordered Bob, pushing her into a dark corner. The blob saluted crisply, one blue mitten swiping up to touch a fake eyebrow. Wise ass.

  We were back at Channel 99 News after a quick stop at the space docks, watching the main entrance from across the street. It was getting close to the evening news broadcast, and right on schedule our mark came scurrying out the door, making a beeline for the caff vendor two blocks down.

  I pulled away from the brick wall I had been holding up and sauntered over, my longer legs allowing me to catch up before the intern made it halfway there.

  “Where’s my after-action report?” I snapped, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around. The gopher faced Xeno gobbled and smacked, unable to process my sudden presence. “You were supposed to have it for me yesterday! In triplicate! Triplicate!” I thundered.

  “
I… I… I…” the gopher stuttered, brain misfiring on all cylinders and a few extras he borrowed from a next-door neighbor.

  “Useless!” I said in an extremely disappointed voice. “This will not look good to the committee. I had high hopes for you, such promise. And now look at you, a disgrace.” I said, looking down at him and shaking my head. “Useless.”

  “I have the report, I have the report, I have the report!” the intern squeaked, finally getting his act together. “It’s back at the station, the station, I can get...” he stopped, his eyes going wide. I turned to look, Bob gliding up in a long dress and wearing her red wig.

  “Where’s my caff?” Bob demanded in Viphres Nechun’s voice. “I’m on a deadline!”

  “You already met my associate, codenamed Blue for obvious reasons,” I said. “You will escort Agent Blue to the server room where she will insert this into a console,” I stated, holding up the hacking device I still hadn’t found the time to return to Zam. “Then you will deliver Fwunky Moh'na’s caff to her, ensuring she drinks it before going on the air. Upon completion of this task, you are to retreat to your previously designated rally area and await further instructions.” I admit, I was hamming it up more than strictly necessary, but the intern was loving every second of it.

  “Yes, yes, yes, of course of course. Agent Blue, caff, server room. No, server room, then caff. Yes, yes. What about the report, the report?” the intern asked, chattering excitedly and practically vibrating in place.

  “Deliver the report to Agent Blue,” I said, not really caring what he did with it. “But under no circumstances are you to be seen doing any of this.”

  “Yes, yes, I can do that, I can do that!” the gopher-like intern said, dashing off to the caff vendor and ordering an extra-large double vente, no sugar, triple foam.